All The Wasted Years
by cactusnell
Summary: Will Sherlock make the same mistake? Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes and his best friend Dr. John Watson sat in the flat at 221B Baker Street, John trying to talk Sherlock into something that he obviously did not want to do.

"Sherlock, you have to do this for me. Mary really needs it," he said, appealing to his friend's affection for his wife. "You know she's been cooped up in the flat since the baby arrived…"

"I doubt very much that she has been indoors for every waking moment. That's impossible. She must run errands. Surely she does some shopping?"

"You git, you know what I mean. She needs a night out. She needs to feel more like a woman, and less like a mother. She needs to feel young again!"

"Young again, John? What miracle do you have in mind?" Sherlock said dryly.

"I dare you to say that to her!"

"Perhaps not," Sherlock muttered, remembering her talents as an assassin.

"Look, I just want to take her out for a night on the town. Great dinner in a fancy restaurant, maybe some drinks later."

"Fine. But why must I accompany you? "

"Listen, I have been trying to get her out of the flat for weeks, but she always makes some excuse. She feels guilty about leaving the kid. She's a first time mother, and I guess she hasn't learned how to loosen the apron strings yet. But if I tell her this was your idea, that, say Mycroft is footing the bill for an extravagant evening on the town as a reward for some case we helped out with, well, then, that will go a long way towards changing her mind, understand?"

"Not really, but if it's that important to you…"

"Thanks, mate!" John exclaimed, smiling gratefully.

"...then book a reservation at the most overpriced place in town, and text me the details."

"Let's not go overboard, chum. How about the ninth or tenth most overpriced place in town?"

"If Mycroft is paying, I insist it be the most expensive place!"

"But, Sherlock, Mycroft won't really be paying.

"Care to place a wager on that?" Sherlock was busy texting his brother. "In fact, I'll just let him make the arrangements. I'm sure Anthea can make some suggestions. Do you have a preference for the date?"

"I was thinking about this Saturday…"

"Saturday it is. Reservations for three…"

"Four, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped texting and looked warily at his friend. "Four, John?"

"Look, Sherlock, can't you dig up a date…"

"I don't date."

"It doesn't have to a real date. It's just that it seems awkward with three people. Bring Molly. She's always helped with our cases. She helps you out when I'm not available. She's your pathologist, for godsakes! She's our friend. It would seem perfectly natural for her to be included in Mycroft's thank you!"

Sherlock sighed heavily and reluctantly typed "four" on his mobile.

"Thanks, mate," John rose to leave, "See you Saturday."

Sherlock watched the door close, and retreated to his mind palace to think things over. The first thing he saw was Molly, the earlier version of Molly. He had known her longer than he had known John. This version of Molly was the one who stammered in his presence, who trembled when he accidently touched her. The one who had trouble meeting his eyes. He knew that most people believed that this was because she was so smitten with him, but they were people who saw, but didn't observe. What they saw was a petite woman with relatively nondescript brown hair, a self-effacing manner, and a lovely smile standing next to a very attractive tall, slender man, with striking blue-green eyes, cheekbones to die for. His mouth was the perfect shape, and the voice that came out it was enough to make chills run down your spine. He knew that he could take no credit for his looks, that they were a gift of his parents' combined genetics. But his looks and her looks were what people saw, and judged them on accordingly. So they assumed that her nervous behavior was caused by her unrequited crush on the detective.

But Sherlock always assumed the opposite. He knew Molly Hooper was an overly competent, supremely intelligent, and strong young woman. She was made of kindness, gentleness, sympathy, combined with a quick wit. He could only assume that her discomfort was due to the fact that she could somehow discern, despite all his efforts to hide it, his absolute infatuation with her. He assumed that she could sense the stolen looks, the way his mind drifted when she played with her hair, that she could feel his admiration oozing from every pore as she cut into a cadaver without flinching. He had, on numerous occasions when he felt he was becoming too obvious, forced himself to make cutting, or even hurtful, remarks. Her subsequent look of pain on these occasions had almost caused him to reveal himself, to hold her close and try to mend her broken spirits. In one instance he had apologized and kissed her lightly on the cheek. He remembered how hard it had been to pull away.

But this version of Molly had been replaced by a newer, some might say improved, version. There was no longer any doubt in anyone's mind of her value to him. They worked well together, they socialized, and they were truly friends. Sherlock decided that, although his affection for her had in no way diminished, he must have gotten considerably better at hiding it. He was relieved that he no longer made her uncomfortable in his presence, but sometimes missed the power he had over her, if only in a negative context.

But, truth be told, in the case of Molly Hooper, it was the great detective himself who saw but did not observe.

Mycroft Holmes' assistant, Anthea, had indeed surpassed all expectation. The two couples, or one couple and a couple of hangers-on, as they saw themselves, had enjoyed a wonderful meal at London's most exclusive restaurant. Nothing was too good for the guests of Mycroft Holmes.

They had wined and dined their through multiple courses with an easy camaraderie, finally arriving at dessert. John had beamed at his wife the entire meal, bathing himself in her easy laughter, a sound which had been in scarce supply these past few months. Sherlock had joined in the merriment, regaling them with stories of some of his more bizarre cases, flinching only once when Molly grabbed his wrist during a bout of uncontrollable giggles. He glanced in her direction, noting how lovely she looked, her dimples on display for all to see as she smiled brightly.

"Well, where do we go from here?" John asked, laughing. "It's much too early to call it a night! And we have Mycroft's car, so we don't have to worry about staying sober!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Mary, and Molly, seemed eager to continue the night's revelries. And since this evening was supposed to be for Mary, after all, they made plans to continue on to nice place to have drinks, and maybe dance a bit.

The place they chose, at Anthea's suggestion once again, turned out to be a rather comfortably appointed nightspot with dimly lit booths and a sophisticated air. They snuggled into a booth, ladies in the middle, gentlemen on the end. It may have been slightly crowded, but John and Mary certainly didn't mind! Sherlock found himself sitting uncomfortably on the edge until Molly apologetically moved in closer to Mary and pulled him in closer to herself. By the time they had downed a few drinks, some of them were ready to dance. This did not include Sherlock, despite the fact that loved it. He didn't relish the thought of getting between John and his wife, and the thought of taking Molly in his arms and leading her around the floor filled him with trepidation. As the evening progressed, and Molly had still not had the opportunity to dance, John, ever the gentleman, and seeing Molly looking longingly at the couples on the floor, left his seat next to Mary, reached his hand across the table to Molly, and gave her a wink. Molly smiled up at him gratefully and took his proffered hand.

"That should have been you out there, you bloody prat!" Mary slightly slurred her words as she nodded to the couple on the dance floor.

"You're just jealous of your husband!"

"Well, it seems there's no need for me to be!" Mary nodded once more toward the dance floor and Sherlock turned to see John heading back to the table and Molly dancing and laughing with an attractive blond. He fully expected her to return to the table when the music ended, but was surprised to see the stranger talk her into another spin around the floor. Then another. When she finally returned she seemed a little breathless. Mary and her quickly exchanged giggling comments about the stranger's attributes, while Sherlock seemed to fidget in his seat more and more. As the music started for another slow dance, an attractive dark-haired man approached the table, extended his hand to Molly, and said, "Would you be so kind?" Molly giggled, took another swig of her umpteenth drink, and practically shoving Sherlock out of his seat, almost skipped to the dancefloor with yet another stranger.

Three dances, and as many partners later, Sherlock mouthed to John, "Maybe it's about time we should consider leaving?"

John, having been snogging his wife senseless for the last ten minutes, had absolutely no objections. He just hoped Molly was not going to be a problem! He was about to find out, as she was last returning to the table.

"No, we can't leave!" Molly swayed slightly as she said this. John tried not to be perturbed. "We can't leave until Sherlock dances with me at least once!"

Mary pulled herself away from John's face long enough to cheer her on, "Dance with her, Sherlock. I want to go home!"

Sherlock rose from his seat, grabbed Molly's hand, and practically dragged her to the floor. "Let's get this over with!"

"That's borderline insulting, Sherlock. But I guess I should be used to it by now."

Feeling more than a tinge of regret, Sherlock took her in his arms and began to lead her around the floor. She rested her head on his shoulder and he could smell the strawberry scent of her shampoo and the lavender of her perfume. He was thinking that he could spend hours like this, just touching her and breathing her in, when she surprised him by saying, "Have you ever, just once, considered making a pass at me?" His head snapped to a more alert position. He knew she had drunk quite a bit. Could this be just the liquor talking? As if reading his mind, she continued, "Relax, I'm not that pissed. I'm just curious. I know you put your work above everything. But in all these years, with me so obviously mooning after you, did you ever consider it? Even once? That, too, can be considered borderline insulting!" Having said her piece, and not really expecting an answer, she put her head back on his shoulder and sighed. When the music came to an end, he guided her, somewhat speedily, back to the booth.

"Come on, John. I thought you wanted to leave?"

The hurried out of the club to find Mycroft's car waiting for them. They dropped the Watsons at their flat, seemingly just in time, as the snogging was becoming more and more passionate. When Molly and Sherlock were left alone in the back seat, neither wanted to be first to speak. Sherlock gave the driver Molly's address, and then sat in silence, retreating to his mind palace for a short visit.

Could he, the great detective, have been so wrong all this time? Was she truly unaware of his attraction to her? He had always believed that this was made her so uncomfortable around him.

Is it possible that everybody else was right, and he was wrong? He tried to look at her, but she seemed so withdrawn, almost curled into herself on the seat beside him. She was beginning to look like the Molly of old, the one who stammered and withdrew from him. There is always something he misses. But he was certainly smart enough to learn from his mistakes, and he was determined not to repeat this one!

When they arrived at her building, she was surprised that he had dismissed the car. She climbed the stairs to her flat nervously, with Sherlock following closely behind. Too close, she thought, as her breath seemed come more quickly. She had done it now. He was going to go Sherlocky on her, trying to let her down gently, explaining that there was no room for sentiment in his life, telling her that she counted (just not enough!), and generally making her feel like an idiot for practically admitting what everybody already knew. That despite all the boyfriends (although there hadn't really been all that many!), the fix-ups by friends, the blind dates, and even one engagement, she was going to wind up alone. Because he was the one, and had been from the moment he had walked into her lab. And there was absolutely nothing either one of them could do to change it.

When they entered her sitting room, Sherlock started to speak, but Molly interrupted him.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. It's my problem, not yours…"

"You don't seem to understand…"

"Sherlock, listen to me. You've done nothing to lead me on."

"I bloody well should have!"

"I hope we can still be friends. I was a bit drunk, and shouldn't have said anything…"

Sherlock, this time recognizing an opportunity when it presented itself, and utterly determined to make up for all the years (years!) of lost time, stepped toward her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and said as his pulled her into him, "Will you please shut the hell up!" And then he proceeded to shut her the hell up.

But the time the first kiss ended, he had her moving to Baker Street. As he nuzzled her neck and traced kisses from her ear to her collarbone, he was picturing them at the local registry office. By the time his one hand made it up her back to her neck to her to lose itself in her long hair, and his other hand had dipped to cup her arse, he was naming their children.

Molly broke away long enough to murmur, "Not Sigur! Your father's a lovely man, but I hate that name!"

Sherlock, who hadn't realized he had been giving voice to his thoughts, looked down at her in surprise. Realizing what had happened, he moved his lips closer to her again, and whispered, "Okay, no Sigur. I'll grant you it is an unusual name. But after all, he did name his two sons Mycroft and Sherlock!"

And then he slowly and gently backed her into her room to start work on the not so unusually named baby John or Mary.


End file.
